He really had temporarily forgotten about them. When he was focused on Mila, everything else faded, especially the bad old days.
He’d been in the shower long enough that his fingertips had started to wrinkle. He gave himself a few more swipes with the washcloth so she’d have a chance to put on her jammies and leave the bedroom. The next time they talked, he planned to be wearing a shirt.
Not that covering his back would help. Evidently this moment would have come sooner or later, so maybe it was good to deal with it now. The next challenge was getting past it.
He’d created the lie about his scars when he was on his first construction job years ago and they were more obvious. A bucket of paint had fallen from a trestle and doused him. He’d taken off his shirt, washed it with a hose and put it back on wet.
In the process, one of the guys had asked him about his back. He’d claimed he’d been crawling under a barbed wire fence to escape an angry bull. Mila didn’t deserve to hear that half-assed lie.
She wanted to make things work between them as much as he did. Maybe he could convince her to back off the subject. He’d made love to her while her favorite Christmas music played. That should count for something, right?
Her Christmas-themed jammies would be another test he would pass with fudging flying colors. Ha, ha. The images on them didn’t bother him. He’d just ignore the red and green color scheme. It would be good practice.
Switching off the water, he left the shower and took the other bath towel. He’d had two on the rack from the day he’d installed it. Also two washcloths, plus two hand towels on hooks by the sink.
Although it had taken him months to admit it to himself, he’d always intended to share this loft. The only candidate had been the woman currently in residence. It was a wonder he hadn’t equipped the bathroom with twin sinks.
He could hear her moving around in the kitchen, opening the fridge, running water as she rinsed off the potatoes and the chicken. Music to his ears.
He fetched clean sweats from his dresser, put them on and tucked a condom in his pocket. He might have just ruined any chance to make love in front of the fire tonight, but he’d hope for the best.
Next he reached for a sweatshirt. Out of sight, out of mind, at least until he took it off again. He shoved his arms in the sleeves and was about to pop his head through the neck opening when he changed his mind.
He hadn’t looked at his back in months, maybe even years. How bad was it? He should check. Mila had brought a hand mirror with her, likely to see all sides of her hair. Jordie had always had a mirror like that for the same reason.
Returning to the bathroom, he picked up the mirror, turned his back to the cabinet above the sink and winced. Yeah, those damn scars were still visible — four thin white lines. Three ran from side to side. The fourth angled from his shoulder to his waist.
He shuddered, put down the mirror and turned around as a familiar queasiness churned in his gut. Bracing both hands on the counter, he bowed his head and forced himself to take several deep breaths.
As he dragged moist air into his lungs, he called up an image of loping Sparky through a meadow of pink fireweed. His first ride on his first-ever horse. The beauty of that moment gradually beat down the nightmare, sending it to the dungeon where it belonged.
Sparky had been a godsend, offering him a chance to work off steam at a dead run, meander down a shade-dappled path, or quietly bask in the majesty of a sunrise. Riding his horse helped keep his demons at bay.
Questions about his scars did not. If he’d wondered whether he could handle telling her, he had the answer.
A few more deep breaths and he was ready to put on his sweatshirt. A sweet aroma drifted through the barn doors. Did baking sweet potatoes smell like that? If so, he really had been missing out.
Running his fingers through his damp hair, he walked into the main room in his bare feet. He wasn’t deliberately trying to sneak around. He just needed to get his bearings before announcing his presence.
Mila had returned to the couch to work on a Santa hat. Her phone rested near her hip, softly playing Mannheim Steamroller as she stitched the white furry strip back on. Looked like the last one.
Blocking out the red and green decorating her jammies, he concentrated on the snow falling steadily past the windows, the aroma of baking sweet potatoes, and lantern light gleaming on Mila’s dark hair as she concentrated on those tiny stitches. Even the faint music was a positive, now that he associated it with loving her.
He wanted this, wanted it more than he’d ever wanted anything. But could he have it? The jury was still out.
She glanced up, the look in her eyes difficult to read. “Almost done.”
“So I see.” A pain shot through his chest. When she finished, she’d have no obligation to stay. Was she planning her escape?
Her expression softened. “I’m not leaving tonight.”
“That’s good.” No point denying she’d guessed his thoughts. He walked over and settled next to her. “I don’t want you to.”
“I don’t want to, either, but I probably should go back tomorrow.”
“Oh?” The pain in his chest returned. She’d just chopped one night out of the plan. “Why is that?”
“I can’t speak for you, but I need time to think. To process. Normally I’d talk this out with Claudie, but obviously I can’t do that. Instead I’ll take a long ride on Sol.”
